


...And All That Jazz

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Chicago AU, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2013-05-15
Packaged: 2017-12-11 22:32:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/803983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Rose is an aspiring performer who commits a murder and finds her life flipped upside down; an AU fic based on the movie Chicago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	...And All That Jazz

You collapse on the bed as soon as you shoot the bastard, and you begin crying in earnest. It’s understandable that you’re upset. You were lied to. You were taken advantage of. Now you’re right back at square one, looking for a way to break into show business.

You start to cry more when you fully realize what you’ve just done. Dave is dead. Dave is dead and you killed him. Unless you act now, you’re going to jail.

You have to ditch the body, you think. But you’re not strong enough to carry him. Can you dismember him; get rid of him piece by piece? If you tossed him out the window would he land in the dumpster? No, you see flashing red and blue lights out the window and you know it’s too late to get rid of evidence.

Play innocent. That’s the new plan. That’s a better plan. You need an alibi now. You stuff some bills in his pocket before you return to the bed and start crying again, hamming it up so maybe the cops will believe you’re in shock. When an officer knocks on your apartment door you answer with your eyes wet.

“Good evening, miss,” he says, and you make a show of trying to collect yourself. “We’ve had reports of gunfire inside this building. Do you know anything about that?”

You nod, and start crying again. You step back and let them in to find the body lying spread eagle on his back.

The officer has you sit down again and fetches a handkerchief for you. You take another few minutes to cry as you mentally go over your alibi once more. As you wipe your eyes, you notice black spots in the cloth. Your mascara must be running. Good.

As soon as your fake crying calms down, you start in on your story. You tell the officer that you were in bed and nearly asleep when you heard someone in the other room. You live alone, so naturally you were scared. You grabbed your gun (which you keep in the underwear drawer in case of emergencies like this) and opened the door to find this man picking through your belongings and trying to decide what was valuable.

He started to threaten you, and when he saw the gun he came toward you to take it. You panicked. You shot, trying to defend yourself. You didn’t mean to kill him, but it all happened so fast. Once you realized what you’d done…well, you don’t know if you’ll ever be able to forgive yourself for taking a life.

You start crying again at the end of the story, but not hysterically. You’ve got to commend yourself for your acting skills. The officer is sympathetic as far as coppers go. You must be in the clear. You cover your face again to hide your smirk.

Everything goes to shit when another man in blue leads in a woman in a nightgown. You recognize her as one of your neighbors; specifically, the one you and Dave had accidentally woke up a few weeks ago when you got in. (You were both drunk and loud, and she opened the door to find him pinning you against the wall. At the time you thought it would be hilarious to introduce him as your brother.)

She identifies the body and retells her story. You’ve been sleeping with this man for weeks. She heard him come in with you earlier, and she heard him come again half an hour ago. Then there was yelling, though she didn’t hear what was said, and the gunshots. She called the police immediately.

You glare at her as she talks. Your smirk turns into a grimace. If you still had the gun in your hand, you’d probably shoot her too.

“You bitch!” you spit, pushing yourself to your feet. “You lying cow!” You start crying again, but your tears are real now. You’ve lost. You’ll be going to jail for this.

“Miss Lalonde, you already admitted to shooting him.” You turn back to the first cop, who is pulling out a pair of handcuffs.

You start shaking your head. “No, I…I mean, yes, I shot him, but it was justified! I told you my story; he was trying to burgle me.”

“It doesn’t check out.” All his sympathy from before has evaporated. He cuffs you and escorts you out of the building, past curious neighbors and journalists. You bow your head to avoid pictures of your red eyes and blotchy cheeks. All the while you can only think that you’re going to jail. You’re going to jail, and you’ll probably be found guilty and spend the rest of your life there.

The only thing that gets through to you in those moments is a conversation about the sentence. They reckon you’ll hang for this. You’ll spend the rest of your life in jail, and it won’t even be that long.

You’re hyperaware of the sound of your breath and the feel of your heartbeat. Everything else passes by in a blur. Paperwork, mug shots, all of it is settled around you.

You only start to come back to reality when you’ve sat on a bench in a room of other new inmates waiting to be showed to their new homes. None of these women look scared and pale like you do. It really only intimidates you more. You realize you’re probably the only one here that hasn’t been in jail before. You overhear a woman talking about your matron, a woman she called Her Imperious Condescension. The name makes absolutely no sense to you; it just rubs your inexperience in your face.

The entrance of the matron doesn’t make you feel any better. Just her presence is intimidating. You don’t know if it’s the hair that seems to fill the room or the expensive cigar between her fingers or simply the way she holds herself like a queen.

“Hey there, ladies.” She looks around the room, glancing at each of you in turn, probably sizing you up. “I’m here to take care of you all. You can either call me Mama, or Your Fucking Highness.”

You don’t know if her informal tone makes you feel better or worse. Is she being serious? Would she yell at you if you actually used the latter option? What would she do to you if you broke her rules? You’re already in jail so it’s not like things can get too much worse, but you have a feeling you should stay on this woman’s good side.

She gives a speech affirming that your life will be easier if you don’t upset her. You’re pretty sure she’s also implying that she accepts bribes. You wonder what exactly she’d be able to do for you, if anything.

She stops talking and has everyone file out. You’re one of the last, waiting on everyone to show you what to do next. Mama stops you with a hand on your shoulder though. “Hey, you’re Lalonde, right?”

You nod sheepishly. You wonder how she knew that. “Yes ma’am,” you say in barely a whisper. You realize it’s the first thing you said since your last attempt to prove your innocence.

“Sweetie,” (she tilts her head and forces a smile and draws out the vowels; you think you know where the Condescension nickname comes from now) “just call me Mama.”

She puts her arm around your shoulders and begins to lead you in a different direction from the other women. You wish she wouldn’t touch you, but you don’t want to pull away and come off as rude. As she pulls you past occupied cells, she explains that this block is reserved for murderesses.

That knowledge is more comforting to you than it should be. It hits you again that you’re a killer now, but all these other women are killers too. You don’t want to be here but since you have to be, you suppose you’d choose to be around people who have been accused of the same crime.

As you pass each cell, you wonder about the stories of these women. You peer between bars to watch each one for a few seconds, as if their postures will tell you all about them.

Halfway down one row, you see one story that you already know. You’d almost completely forgotten about her. She was performing with her sister the night that you met Dave. Not even a week later, Kanaya Maryam sang alone and was arrested immediately after the show.

You only have eyes for her as soon as you notice her. She was living your dream, and now she’s here. Suddenly you’re glad to be in a place where maybe you can befriend her. Your mind instantly conjures a fantasy in which you’re both found innocent, or at least you’re found innocent, and Kanaya introduces you to a friend like Dave was supposed to do.

Meanwhile in reality, she only spares you a glance that lasts a second and a half.

You reach your cell shortly after that. The bars close behind you and lock you in, and then its lights out. Your cell is cold and uncomfortably dark. Your mattress is thin, and not nearly as soft or as big as what you’re used to. The blanket you were given is itchy, and the pillow is lumpy. It takes you a long time to fall asleep.

The next morning you’re woken up early for breakfast. The food is mediocre and it reminds you of high school. So does the crowded cafeteria with long lunch tables, except there’s only women. You’re still tense and a little nervous until you start talking with your fellow inmates.

Most of your day is spent doing your newly assigned chores halfheartedly as you chat. You make some new friends with whom you exchange stories.

There’s a cute little Hawaiian woman called Feferi who you wouldn’t have believed capable of murder were she not here. “My fiancé Eridan used to chew gum all the time,” she told you, “and he’d always pop it. Oh my gosh, if you would’ve heard it… Eventually I told him to shut the fuck up or I swear…but he didn’t. So, I took the shotgun off the wall and fired two warning shots. Into his head.”

In the laundry room, you met a girl with an eye patch named Vriska. “I met John Egbert from the west coast a while ago. We hit it off right away, so we started living together.” Here she shook out a dry blanket with enough venom to make it snap. “Then I found out he wasn’t single at all. He had eight wives.” Your eyes had widened in an angry shock. You think you’d have killed him too.

Another cutie who kept yawning and appeared to be resisting the urge to take a nap in the pile of clean blankets took the opportunity to tell her story too. “So one day I’m carving up a chicken for dinner, and then in comes Equius. He’s pissed off, screaming about how I’ve been screwing the milkman, I’ve been screwing the milkman, and he won’t shut up for two goddamn seconds about me screwing the milkman. Then he ran into my knife. He ran into my knife ten times.” (You later learn that this girl’s name is Nepeta, and she’s usually a total sweetie.)

You end up sitting in a different spot during lunch than you did in breakfast. On your right is a girl who looks just as pale as you. Your first thought when you see her is that she doesn’t belong here. When you begin talking to her, you find that you’re right. Her name is Aradia, and someone with a grudge against her framed her for the accidental death of her friend Tavros. She was innocent but she was found guilty, and her final appeal is in a few weeks. The story made you want to cry.

Your final new friend didn’t have a much happier story. She wore red sunglasses and carried a cane and introduced herself as Terezi. You were kind of surprised that she was actually able to kill someone, though you wouldn’t guess by a glance that any of the women in your cell block were killers. Anyway, it was clear once she started talking that she was still very hurt and angry. “I loved Karkat Vantas more than I could possibly say. He was this real artistic guy; always trying to find himself. And on the way he found Jade, Meenah, Gamzee, and Sollux.”

None of your new friends are criminals, you think. You always find yourself on their side as you listen to their stories. Even when you overhear Kanaya’s for the millionth time as she talks to reporters in her cell – she had this double act with her sister Porrim, and her “roommate” traveled with them, until she found them sleeping together one night before the show, blah blah she doesn’t remember killing them but she probably did – but you still can’t blame her for her actions.

You like to think that they think the same of you (except Aradia, not that you blame her). They gave sympathetic nods and outraged gasps in all the right places, and later tips. “When you’re in court, stick close to the story you told the police. You can only write off so much to shock and confusion.”  “Don’t yell at the journalists like I did, it makes you look vicious.” “Don’t let the state stick you with a shitty lawyer. I learned that the hard way.”

You mulled over the advice you got in your spare time and tried to concentrate on it. Trying to form a plan to get you out of this mess did a lot for your nerves, despite your lack of success. The story you told the police didn’t check out. You really don’t want to talk to press. You didn’t think the journalists who saw you get arrested actually got enough for a story. Will you have to talk to press? Will you get a chance to alter your story? Can you even afford a good lawyer? And of course, should you even trust advice from women who lost their cases?

During your break time in the afternoon, you find a chance to possibly clear things up a bit. Kanaya Maryam is sitting totally alone with a cigarette and a deck of cards, playing solitaire on her own. You look over her shoulder at her game and clear your throat.

She glances at you without interest, but you smile anyway. “You could move this card over here,” you say, pointing from an eight of hearts to a nine of clubs. She nods, but doesn’t follow your suggestion and continues playing.

You decide not to be discouraged. She may just be in a bad mood, or maybe you came off as patronizing (it wouldn’t be the first time). You sit next to her, trying to give her plenty of space.

“My name is Rose.” You inject a polite cheeriness into your voice, though you don’t feel it. “I just got in last night.”

“I saw,” she says as she draws three cards.

Kanaya doesn’t even look at you, concentrating completely on her game that’s a near total lost cause. You continue speaking anyway. “Yes. So, well, I’ve never been in jail before. I’ve never been accused of anything. And, you know, last night they were saying I’d probably hang. It’s…pretty scary, actually. So I’ve been asking around, asking for advice, and…” You swallow and decide to butter her up a little more. “Well, I saw your show not too long ago. I loved it, your dancing is amazing. And, you know, I always wanted to be a show girl, so I kind of look up to you, you know? So I thought maybe I could get a few tips from someone I kind of look up to.”

You realize you’ve been rambling and decide to shut up. You wonder if you’ve been too sweet or not sweet enough and you bite your lip. Thankfully, at least you don’t have to wait too long for an answer this time.

“Leave me alone. You might want to write that one down so you can remember it.” She draws three more cards, and ends up restacking the deck.

Silently, trying not to spit an insult back at her, you make your way to the door. Maybe you can find something better to do with your afternoon than make a fool out of yourself in front of girls you really do admire. You can’t help but glare over your shoulder at her though. You see her finally move the eight on top of the nine, as you suggested.

Mama is standing at the doorway watching you, and you don’t realize until you’re about twenty feet away. She shakes her head a little as you approach. “Oh, darling, you’ve…” She gestures at her mouth with a slightly sympathetic look. You wrinkle your brow and raise your own hand to wipe at the corner of your lip. “You got your lipstick smudged a little when you were kissing her ass.”

 You pull your hand away and shoot her a deadpan stare before you even think about it. Internally though, you wonder if it was really that bad.

All Mama does is laugh and signal you to follow her. You walk silently as she leads you to her office. It’s smaller than you would have expected, but very nicely decorated. She invites you to sit on a plush chair as she hops up on top of her desk.

“I couldn’t help but hear you’ve got no idea what you got yourself into.” She pulls out a cigar identical to the one she had last night. “If you’ve really got a hanging case, you’ll want Strider to defend you.”

You squint suspiciously. You thought Dave was a furniture salesman who claimed to work some nights introducing musicians before their performances. Mama misinterprets your expression. “Broderick Strider. He’s the best criminal lawyer in the state. Never lost a case before. If you can afford him, he’s good.”

You shake your head. At least you’re not confused anymore, but this is still useless information – unless, of course, this Broderick Strider ends up as your prosecuting attorney. “I don’t think he’d take my case,” you say delicately, rather than trying to explain.

“Sure he will. All you need is the money, I promise.” She smirks, and then starts blowing smoke rings above your head.

“No, you don’t understand.” You take a moment to think of the right way to put it, but then decide there is no right way. “The guy I plugged, his name was Dave Strider.”

Mama snorts and coughs slightly on her smoke. “Oh, he’ll definitely love you. He hated that little shit.”

You laugh a little and relax a lot. “So how do I get this guy?”

“I’ll make a call for you,” she says as she taps her cigar. A bit of ash lands on her skirt, but most of it lands on the floor. “The bills are a bit steep, but a hundred bucks should cover it.” (She doesn’t even try to be subtle about her bribes, does she?) “Then Broderick will come and discuss your case and all that.”

There’s a pause in which you mull it over. You have a little over a hundred dollars saved and hidden in a drawer at home. That was supposed to be for next month’s rent, but you suppose you have bigger problems right now. You tell Mama you have the money but not on you, and she says she could work something out to collect it.

In the meantime, you leave to go mingle with inmates a bit more until dinner and shower time. Even among dozens of other ladies, you end up humming a soft tune as you wash your hair. You notice Nepeta does it too, but badly. You also notice Vriska rolling her eyes, Terezi giggling a bit, and Kanaya staring from a distance.

That night when you go to bed, you think you feel a lot better than you did when you were arrested.

The same goes for the next few nights, and the next few days. Mama assures you that your payment has been received, and Mr. Strider is reviewing your case. “Lots of people want him, but he can only handle so many cases. I’ve got a feeling he’ll take an interest in yours though,” she divulges with a wink. There’s not much for you to do in the meantime though, so you try to find other things to occupy your attention.

Finally, three days later, the cell block gets a visitor in a suit and tie. You realize he must be a lawyer or else he wouldn’t have been let in. If the familiar shade of dirty blonde hair is any indication, you think you know who he is.

You call his name to see if he responds. His footsteps slow and he looks to his left, so you run to catch up and call his name again. He turns again to face you with a blank expression that’s so familiar it makes you want to laugh.

You put on your sweetest smile and slip into suck-up mode again. “Hi Mr. Strider, I’m Rose Lalonde. Mama called you about me, didn’t she?”

You see the recognition in his eyes, but he plays it cool.  _That’s a familiar attitude._  “Oh, right, you offed my baby brother, didn’t you?” He gives you a once-over, but not a chance to answer his question. “Have you got five thousand dollars?”

“Whoa, wait, I thought I already…” You cut yourself off when you remember the money you paid was for Mama, not your lawyer. Your smile falters, but you fix it quickly. “I don’t have it now, but I think I can get it. Or maybe,” and you reach out to rest your hand on his shoulder and lean closer to him, “we can work out another arrangement?”

He shrugs your hand off. “Is that out of your system yet?” You press your lips together, but you step back from him. He quirks an eyebrow, says one more time “Five thousand dollars, Poppy,” and continues on his way.

You don’t bother correcting him when he gets your name wrong; you know he did it on purpose. You simply watch him go with a sigh. Where are you going to get that kind of money? You already gave everything you had to Mama for that damn phone call. You watch Strider walk away, and you feel like it’s your last hope leaving you. As you see Kanaya appear at the end of the hall and greet him enthusiastically, your hope is replaced with the dread you felt before.

You don’t know what to feel as you watch Strider drop his arm around her and start jabbering about her case. She looks over her shoulder at you, and you expect to see a haughty little smirk, but what you’re given is an expression you can’t read. As she leaves with her lawyer, confusion mixes with your dread and only makes you feel worse.

That evening, your mood still hasn’t picked up. You want to be alone with your thoughts, so you play solitaire by yourself at an empty table. Well, you end up doing less playing solitaire and more shuffling the deck as you sing softly.

_“In fifty years or so, it’s gonna change, you know, but oh it’s heaven nowadays…”_

“You’re really pretty good, you know?” The extra presence makes you jump before you realize it’s only Kanaya. Wait, Kanaya actually approached you? You have to stare at her for a few seconds before you believe it.

When you do collect yourself, you nod and thank her curtly. She sits without invitation. “Listen, you caught me in a bad mood the other day. Besides, when you’re in show business, you get unwanted attention all the time. People who only want a bit of money or guys who want to brag about sleeping with you. You know how it is.”

You shrug, unsure if you want to remain cold or not. “I can’t say I do.”

When you see you stumped her, you return to shuffling your cards. “What if you could, someday?” She turns to face you full-on.

You drop the deck of cards again and face her. You’re getting a sense that she wants something out of you, and she’s decided to screw building up to it.

She starts talking as soon as she decides you’re listening. “I heard that you’ve got your eye on Mr. Strider for your defense lawyer. Now, I know he’s expensive, and…no offense, but I’m guessing you can’t afford the price he’s asking.” She pauses, and you offer nothing but a stare. “So I was thinking about it, and I started feeling kind of bad for you. I thought I might help you out. I could pay him for you, if you want.”

“You’d do that for me?” You know she’s going to ask something in return; possibly that you pay her back with a ridiculous interest rate, but you can’t help it. You thought it was impossible for you to get Mr. Strider to defend you in court. Now Kanaya is offering you a way.

She gives you a small smile and a nod. “I could pay him for you, but I’m not made of money. So of course I’d need you to pay me back, perhaps in small increments. But unless you had a real high paying job, it would take you forever, and that won’t do.

“Then I remembered what you said about wanting to be a performer, and I heard you singing in the shower. You’ve got a lot of potential, and I’ve got an opening for a partner in a double act. Together we’d make about four hundred a week, so if we split it 75-25 you’d end up paying me back in just under a year. I could try out a few ideas I could never do with Porrim. And if you really end up hating me that much, you’d have an easier time getting your own act once you’ve paid your debt. If not, we start splitting 50-50.”

The more she speaks, the less you can believe. You stare at her for a moment or two as you process what she’s offering. She’ll pay for your lawyer, who has never lost a case, and she’ll get you into show business. You’re assuming she’ll control everything she can about your act for a year, but after that you’d be free if you wanted. This is a really good deal for you. There’s only one concern that comes to your mind.

“What do you get out of this?”

Kanaya smirks. “Porrim shot down some of my best ideas. There are a few things I’d like to try that I think could be really successful.” You raise an eyebrow, and she anticipates your question. “A few of them aren’t exactly sisterly things.”

You aren’t any less confused by that explanation. She decides to demonstrate.  _“You can like the life you’re living,”_  she sings softly, resting her chin on one hand.  _“You can live the life you like. You can even marry Harry,”_  she tilts her head away from you,  _“but mess around with Ike,”_  and you feel her other hand on your leg.

Your shock makes her smirk, but she removes her hand. Not that it bothered you at all. You think you like what she was getting at though. The idea makes you smile. “That is an interesting signature for an act,” you muse, and you decide to start a little bit of your own brainstorming.  _“And that’s good, isn’t it? Grand, isn’t it?”_  Your hand lands softly on her shoulder and you walk your fingers into her hair, and rest your head on your other hand.  _“Great, isn’t it? Swell…”_

You drop your hand slowly, almost in time with the music continuing in your head, and your smile grows. “It could be really hot.”

“I told Porrim it would be popular,” Kanaya responds, and you see she’s enjoying the presence of someone who agrees with her ideas.

“That too,” you say with a smirk. You’re proud to see a blush grace her cheeks. “Alright, I’m in.”

That seems to take her aback. “Really? You don’t need time to think about it?”

You shake your head. “It looks like I’ll hang if I don’t get a good lawyer, and I’m literally broke. I’m not a complete idiot.”

Kanaya laughs and stands. “I’ll talk to Dirk next time I see him, then. See you around.” Looking significantly happier than she was before, she takes her leave.

“Yeah, see you.” Feeling like you may just escape the gallows, you pick up your cards and start idly shuffling again. Rather than imagining a jury crying guilty and a uniformed man leading you to your death, you begin imagining yourself dressed in sequins and sharing a stage (and possibly more) with a jazz star.

That evening at dinner, Kanaya gives you a nod from down the table when you spot her. You smile back. It’s still a little incredible that your conversation with her wasn’t a product of your imagination. Though the change in her demeanor is small, it forces you to believe.

You didn’t expect her to finish her end of the deal so quickly. The very next afternoon as you’re sitting on your own, you see Mr. Strider again, but this time he comes for you. You make eye contact and he gives a small smile. “Hey, Miss Rose Lalonde, just the woman I was looking for!”

You stand and nearly trip over the chair in your haste. “Mr. Strider! Have you…?”

“Just call me Dirk, sweetie; I’m not the one you need to suck up to.” He sits across from you as you take your seat back. “I’m working for you now. It’s the jury you need to charm.”

“So, the payment’s all taken care of?” you ask, just to make sure you know what’s going on.

He nods, opens his briefcase, and starts shuffling his notes. “You don’t have to worry about a thing. I’ll take good care of you. Now, let’s talk about your case a bit.”

He reviews the information he was given and relays it to you. Then he starts with the questions. “How long have you been living in Chicago?” “How long have you known Dave?” “What was your relationship like?” “Why did you kill him? The truth and I promise it stays between us.” (You hesitated there, until he told you “Look, I know what you’re thinking. He may have been my baby brother, but we hadn’t spoken in years. He’s just another murder victim to me.”)

When he has all the information he needs, he spends a few moments thinking, and nods. “Alright, here’s your new story. Pay attention, because from here on out you’ll need to stick to this exactly.

“You were born and raised in Mississippi. Very wealthy parents, you loved them to bits. Then they died back in nineteen twenty. You’d rather not talk about it. It hurts to think about. You couldn’t stand living in that big empty house all alone, so you decided to sell it and come up north and start over. (Tragic backstory, the press will eat it up, and if you look good in the paper you’ll look good to the jury.)

“Your daddy never did warm up to the idea of you getting married, so you shied away from it too, even when you started running low on money. (It’s expensive living in Chicago, you know.) That never changed until you met Dave. He was a charmer. You fell for him instantly. You were seeing each other for a while, you’ve lost track of exactly how long.

“Then you found out about the other women he was sleeping with. You were hurt, upset, and understandably angry. You had a fight about it. He said he didn’t think you two were exclusive. He took you out on some real nice dates though, so you didn’t understand. Then he got angry, said fine, if spending money on you is a crime he’ll take it back.

“He started digging through your dresser then, looking for the cash you had saved up. You tried to fight him off, because you needed that money to pay the rent. He pulled open your underwear drawer and found the gun you keep there for emergencies. Then he got this awful look in his eye, and you both reached for the gun. You got it first, panicked, and shot him before he could get it away from you. You were afraid when the police got there, and that’s why you said you didn’t know him.”

You kept nodding as you listened, memorizing everything he said so you wouldn’t mix it up later. You repeated it all when he was done just to make sure you had it.

That definitely wasn’t the first time you had to repeat it. You ended up telling it back to Kanaya, who asked about it after you thanked her that evening. You told it at a press conference the next week, and two separate one-on-one interviews. You’ll eventually have to tell it on the witness stand too.

Dirk was right; the press fell for you instantly. He brought back papers and magazines with your story published right alongside Kanaya’s. A few even had you as the headline. You thought she seemed a little jealous, but she was pretty gracious about it. “It’s good that your name’s in all the papers,” she says. “Nobody would be interested in Kanaya Maryam and what’s-her-face.”

“Kanaya Maryam and Rose Lalonde,” you echoed with a slight smile. Rose Lalonde and Kanaya Maryam.

While you were on the subject of your act, Kanaya asked you “You said you actually saw me with Porrim pretty recently, right? What number did you see us do?”

It took you a second to remember. “I don’t know the name of it, but I’m guessing it’s probably called All That Jazz?”

She nods. “Good, so you’re familiar with it. That’s the only number I want to keep from the act with Porrim.”

“So we’ve only got that one?”

“Two,” she corrects. “That one you keep singing in the shower.”

“Nowadays.” You realize then that Kanaya hasn’t even heard the real song. “With the Hot Honey Rag bit at the end.” She looks confused, and you decide to elaborate. “I don’t ever sing that bit because it’s instrumental. But the tempo picks up and it’s perfect for a dance number.”

“Perfect. I can try out some new choreography.” She smiles as she thinks about it. “How does it go?”

You start humming the tune for her, but you start to feel a little ridiculous a few phrases in. “I can’t sing it right, someone will have to play it for you,” you eventually say.

For a moment she seems lost in thought. Then she seems to remember the immediate topic of discussion. “Is there a transition to that, or…?”

You sing that for her too, trailing off awkwardly somewhere around where you had started before. You catch her smirking and you think she asked for that just to hear you sing again. Before she can take it any further, you stand.

“Hey, you’ve had plenty of time to come up with some choreography,” you say, stepping into a more clear area of the room. “Why don’t you show me some of your ideas?”

Kanaya follows you, but she loses her smirk. At first you think that means she’s a bit nervous, but when she says she doesn’t even know how good you are at dancing you get a little more serious. (Well, you still think it may be a tactic for putting it off, which could also be a sign of nervousness.)

She asks you to show her a few basic moves. You don’t recognize them by name, so she shows you. When you mimic her, she nods. “Good, it won’t take you long to learn a proper routine then.”

You stand a little straighter from the compliment. “So you can show me a proper routine?”

“Yes, I might as well start teaching you All That Jazz now,” she says, more to herself than to you.

“I still remember some of it.” Eager to show off a little more, you begin to roll your hips as you remember one of the Maryam sisters doing.  _“Right up here is where I store the juice,”_  (You don’t remember exactly how the choreography went here, but you’ve already got the important part down, so you just go with it.)  _“And all that jazz.”_

Kanaya can’t seem to help joining in. When you reach the lifts that you need your backup dancers for, you move your arms together and go through the motions. At some points you get slightly confused and watch her, but you’re both getting a bit carried away.

_“Show her where to park her girdle. Oh, her mother’s blood’d curdle if she’d hear her baby’s queer for all,”_  and Kanaya places a hand on your shoulder, and you don’t remember this in the routine,  _“that,”_ and she trips you, but catches you in a French dip, and you’re too startled to finish the line with her, _“jazz.”_

She leans into you, dipping you lower but at the same time getting closer. You think if you actually end up adding this to the routine, it would be a nice touch if you threw your head back for that last note. As it is, one of your arms is hanging awkwardly and the other is around Kanaya’s waist, and you’re looking right into her eyes.

“What do you think? Too much?” The question reminds you that this is part of your act.

Still, you have to try a little harder to stay casual in this position. “We may as well be making out on stage,” you say.

She finally pulls you up. “Hmm, maybe you’re right,” she murmurs. You notice she looks a bit disappointed. You have a feeling that she’s only thinking a little of the act. She hasn’t dropped her hands yet.

“I didn’t say that was a bad thing.” You don’t move your hand either.

You notice her blush again, but that’s all you get before the moment is interrupted by the sound of crying outside of the door.

Both of you don expressions of concern and reluctantly drop your arms. Silently, you leave the room together to find the source of the drama. The sobbing and footsteps are the loudest noises in the hallway when you reach it.

With a shock, you see that it’s Aradia walking down the hall with one man in front of her and one behind. You’d never seen her cry before. Even now she’s making a brave attempt not to as half the women in the block watch her pass.

You start looking around for someone who might know what happened. Nepeta and Feferi look like they might cry too; you decide it would be tactless to ask them. Vriska seems indifferent though. You tap her on the shoulder and ask. Kanaya leans in close too so she can hear.

“She lost her last appeal,” Vriska murmurs. “She’ll hang later this week.” Both you and Kanaya decide that you don’t want to hear any more.

The execution is exactly two days later. Nearly everyone is upset by it. Everyone is more subdued when, instead of joining everyone for breakfast, Aradia is escorted to a separate room alone for her last meal. Some of you watch her approach the gallows from cell walls. Terezi can’t bear it. Kanaya squeezes your hand as it happens.

You find yourself shaken by the execution long afterward. Besides the loss of a friend and an innocent life, you’re reminded that there’s still a chance you’ll have to make that walk.

The hanging has the same effect on Kanaya. You find yourself feeling especially bad for her when you remember her trial is only a week later. Your time spent together becomes less about brainstorming ideas for your act and more about trying to reassure each other.

The night before her trial, she tells you “If I’m not back tomorrow night, you’ll know I won. I’ll come and see yours too then. We can go out for drinks after you get off.” You notice she seems more confident in your success than her own.

Sure enough, Kanaya isn’t at dinner the next evening. You miss her though. Sure you still have the other four girls left, but you find that their company isn’t quite the same. There is one positive though; all of them are in agreement that you’ve got it in the bag. They say every article makes you look like a poor little Southern girl who got mixed up with the wrong kind of man.

Still, when the day of your trial finally comes, you do find yourself a little nervous. Sure, your name is in all the papers, but you’re not guaranteed anything. The jury may not be as easily swayed as the press. There are plenty of forces against you, and seeing an innocent woman hang didn’t exactly help your nerves. You keep telling yourself that Kanaya went free, and Aradia didn’t have Dirk.

As you enter the courtroom, you find it hard to ignore all the people gathered there. Half of them seem to be reporters snapping pictures and scribbling in notebooks. One woman mutters into a microphone, and you realize your trial will be broadcasted on the radio. You wonder if Kanaya’s trial got this kind of attention too.

You scan the crowd some more before you sit. A small group sitting near the front watches you with mixed expressions. Some faces are blank while some show despair or confusion or pity or even anger. You realize these must be friends and family of Dave’s.

You don’t have any family to speak of, at least not in Chicago, but you do see a few friendly faces full of concern. And finally, you find the face you were hoping to see. Kanaya offers you a small smile as you make eye contact. You find yourself starting to smile back before Dirk catches your attention.

“Ignore them,” he says, gently guiding you to your seat. “You’ll be less nervous if you ignore the crowd. Concentrate on the jury. Dazzle them, and you’ll dazzle them.” He nods from the jury’s empty seats to the people already gathered.

You nod and fold your hands in your lap. All the noise makes it hard to forget about all the people behind you, watching you, talking about you, but you try to keep your thoughts on the details of the story you need to tell. Dirk leans toward you again. “On second thought, ham it up for a bit of extra sympathy.” You don’t think you need to do much acting for that.

It feels like hours before the jury files in, and another before the judge shows up. The first witness is the officer who arrested you. The second and third and fourth are all neighbors who said nearly the exact same thing. Dirk whispered in your ear during the prosecution’s questioning of the last one, “This is a good sign. They’re just saying the same shit over again. It means they don’t have anything else on you.” You add it to the list of things you have going for you and take a deep breath to calm your nerves.

You are the fifth and final person to be called to the stand. Your neighbors gave mixed signals, so you think you can easily outshine their testimonies. The officer painted a pretty rotten picture of you, but maybe you’ll get an advantage by being last.

On the stand, you can see everyone staring at you. You remember what Dirk said about hamming it up, and you take another deep breath. You see him smirk before he launches into his questioning. You ran through this a few times with him, so at least it’s nothing new. You talk to him more than the audience. His part is easy. He sits with a triumphant smirk.

The prosecution, a woman with a striking resemblance to Terezi, doesn’t waste any time. At first she reminds you of the police with her cold manner, but as the questions continue you think of the reporters you’ve already been talking to. Her questions are almost exactly the same. As you answer her questions the same way you answered theirs, you begin to feel less like your life hangs on what you say. You begin to think Dirk had a point when he said they didn’t have much on you when she rests far earlier than you expected.

You’re excused from the stand, and that’s it. You realize that you’ve done all you can, and there’s nobody else to speak for or against you. The jury leaves to deliberate, and noise rises all around you. Dirk pats you on the shoulder and tells you that you did well. You find Kanaya in the crowd again, and she nods as if to confirm it. You feel marginally better. Now all that’s left to do is wait.

It feels like ages before the jury comes back, but you hear Dirk mutter “That was short.” You’re tempted to think it’s a good sign, but you can’t be sure.

The room goes silent as they file in again. You wish they’d just hurry up and announce the verdict. The judge takes too long to get settled again and ask the question. The first man in the jury stands and takes way too long to give his answer.

Not guilty.

You almost sob from the relief. A huge smile spreads on your face without your permission. You literally just got away with murder.

The gavel bangs and you’re a free woman. You turn to Dirk, shake his hand and thank him for everything. His confidence seems boosted by one more winning case under his belt; and you thought he couldn’t get more conceited.

Reporters snap pictures and others begin filing out, or stand around and converse with each other, or just watch you. You move through the aisle between seats until you find Kanaya, standing near the end of the bottleneck at the door, waiting for you with a huge grin.

You’re so happy that you can’t help it. You run for her. You see her take a few quick steps to meet you, and she catches you as you throw your arms around her, and you kiss her.

You hear a collective gasp, and more cameras clicking away, and you turn your head slightly to give them a better angle. Then you realize Kanaya hasn’t responded, and you decide the press probably got at least one good picture, and then you pull back.

You search her expression. It’s mostly shock, but you don’t think it’s the bad kind of shock. You think you see her beginning to smile. You whisper in her ear to get her attention back to the present, “For good publicity, you know?”

You pull back with a grin and a wink, so that she knows that it was genuine but you can still laugh it off if you read her wrong. She grins at you too, as you hoped. “So how about that drink?” she asks. Her grin begins to turn into a smirk and you know she’s forming an idea.

Still, you have a good feeling about this idea. You agree, and she turns away toward the door, leaving one arm around your waist. The crowd has thinned out somewhat by now, so you make your exit easily.

But not before Kanaya pinches your ass as one last treat for the paparazzi.


End file.
